


The Wooden God

by Lelouch



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bottom Kitagawa Yusuke, Child Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drama, First Time, Horror, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Injuries, Murder, Necrophilia, Pre-Canon, Pseudo-Incest, Riding, Top Madarame Ichiryusai, Victim Aroused, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-27
Updated: 2021-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-28 22:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30146217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lelouch/pseuds/Lelouch
Summary: Always deserving of sympathy, his sensei. Never the one to blame. This would require Yusuke to utter the words aloud, to breathe life into them. And who would believe him? Who could believe that the famous Madarame Ichiryusai wanted him, lanky and long-limbed and oh-so strange?
Relationships: Kitagawa Yusuke/Madarame Ichiryusai
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	The Wooden God

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to the idiom (warning for mention of vomit) ["worship the porcelain god."](https://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/worship+the+porcelain+god)

###### Today

Glasses clink. The light burns Yusuke's eyes. He blinks, shies away, cringing like an animal who sees the headlights a moment too late.

From within the parlor, raucous laughter. Yusuke must have missed the joke. Or, like so often with his sensei, he is the joke.

He's sitting on his knees, fists clenched atop his thighs. Awaiting further instruction. Every so often, Madarame will have a small gathering at his home. He invites his colleagues and friends, if they can be referred to as such, and assigns Yusuke to wait upon them.

The ever dutiful Kitagawa Yusuke, born to be loyal.

###### Yesterday

"It is of the utmost importance," Madarame always says, gnarled fingers scratching the back of Yusuke's neck, dipping beneath the collar of his shirt. "I will not be around forever. You must learn to cook for yourself. And subservience is, is..."

"Godliness," Yusuke always finishes for him. "Subservience is godliness."

Madarame nods, his withered hand retreating to cradle his chin, deep in thought. "Quite right, Yusuke. Quite right."

But no matter how many times Madarame forces his ward into the role of servant, he never seems to learn much about cooking or hosting. Madarame tuts at his clumsiness, tsks at his perseverance. Admirable, but brimming with pride. Can't Yusuke be more obedient, more docile?

 _No,_ he thinks. Bent over the sink, washing vegetables, his hands pruney, and Madarame finds it pertinent to slip his hand beneath the waistband of his pants. He should have bought a new belt — he'd felt this one getting looser and looser, half a dozen new holes punched into the material by now — but with what money? Yusuke exists on meager change as it is. But he should have made it happen. He should have made it work, even if he had to weave his own damned belt together from a million blades of grass.

Madarame's finger presses inside him, nail sharp and knuckles bony. Yusuke nicks himself while paring a radish as Madarame curls his finger inside, forcing his body open without lube.

"My fingers are so thin," Madarame always says. "And you know how forgetful I am. Sometimes my hand just slips. How could I ignore a body such as yours, Yusuke?"

Always deserving of sympathy, his sensei. Never the one to blame. This would require Yusuke to utter the words aloud, to breathe life into them. And who would believe him? Who could believe that the famous Madarame Ichiryusai wanted him, lanky and long-limbed and oh-so strange?

Blood fills the sink, turning a pleasant shade of pink as it blends with the water. Yusuke's pants are around his ankles now, belt buckle clanging against the cupboards in front of him. He's clenching the knife with his uninjured hand, fingers trembling. His grip loosens; the knife falls into the sink.

Better not to get any ideas, even unconscious ones when his survival instincts kick in to prevent or alleviate pain. Better not to get any ideas at all.

Yusuke bends further over the sink, the rim digging into his chest. He rests his forehead on the faucet, icy against his skin.

And then Madarame is inside him, stealing his breath, his body, his soul. Tearing him open, searing his flesh until Madarame's thrusts slacken and he whines about how difficult it is at his age. Won't Yusuke ride him? Won't Yusuke have pity on such an old, decrepit man?

The floor makes his knees ache. Madarame moans beneath him, wrinkled fingers digging into his hips. Yusuke's body is torn asunder once more.

Subservience is godliness.

###### Today

And thus, not much cooking ever gets done in the Madarame household to prepare for the tiny parties. But Madarame is a man of means and schemes, plucking favors from every corner of Tokyo. People came earlier to deliver snacks, drinks, full-course meals; they bowed on their way out, returning Madarame's words of gratitude with "no, thank you," as if it is a pleasure to be indebted to such a powerful man.

The party rages on, with Yusuke sitting on his knees until Madarame waves him away. He is no longer necessary, not after basic introductions have been shared and the food has been served. Yusuke is a trophy to be shown off, then tucked away in a forgotten cupboard. Tomorrow he will have dishes to wash, but for now, he retreats into the darkness.

Yusuke puts his foot on the first stair, the creak as familiar as a bitter rival's smirk. Up and up he goes, hand clutching at the rail, until he's at the landing. He made it.

His room is down the hall to the left, bequeathed to him as a teenager, but for a while, he just looks down the stairs.

From the parlor: laughter.

Up here: the chill of nothingness.

###### Ten Years Ago

Yusuke is seven years old.

At the top of the stairs to his right is a large open space where Madarame paints. The sunlight streams in through the window, highlighting the features of his models just right. At night, a sort of coziness slips in. This has been Yusuke's home for so long; sometimes he'll doze off up here, waiting for Madarame to finish his work. And when Madarame finally jostles his shoulder to wake him, it is hours past midnight and Yusuke is bouncing with energy.

Once, Madarame would wrap his arms around him and carry him downstairs to bed. Yusuke can't remember the last time he tried, but he doesn't hold it against his sensei. Age catches up with everyone, and such a brilliant man deserves all of the admiration that the world's pores could spew up.

At the back of the room is an alcove, half a meter off the ground. Above it is a set of cupboards where art supplies spend their lives growing moldy. Madarame tucked a mattress in the alcove at some point for his models to recline on while he sketches them.

Sometimes Yusuke will crawl up onto that mattress, tired of the scratchy floor, and he will curl up in a ball to sleep.

That alcove meant safety once.

Yusuke once thought that everyone Madarame painted lives forever.

###### Ten Years Ago

Madarame is out doing errands as Yusuke plays upstairs. There's a rail between the open room and the stairway, and every part of Yusuke's common sense tells him not to play on it.

Yusuke is a child. He ignores these constant pings in his head, telling him to stop what he's doing. Madarame taught him to never ignore his artistic yearnings — when he has the desire to scribble with paint and crayons, Madarame always insists that he indulges this craving — but this isn't art. This is a different energy.

He sways on the railing, his hands sliding from column to column. He is as free as a bird. There is no one to see him, but he sees himself. He is a monkey swinging through the trees; he is a gazelle hunting prey.

And then he is falling, tumbling down the wooden staircase. His hands reach out but all he manages to do is scratch his palms up with splinters, the smell of ancient wood encasing him.

Yusuke lies at the foot of the stairs, his lungs refusing to suck in oxygen. Is this where he will die, life snuffed out before it could truly begin? What will his mother say, if he sees her? Will she scold him or welcome him with open arms?

His lungs continue to push out air, his mind still whirring, but every time he opens his mouth, his voice is gone. He cannot utter a sound, not until what feels like days later and Madarame finally comes home and tucks him into bed with his favorite stuffed fox.

No grave injuries, Madarame concludes. Just had the wind knocked out of him.

Yusuke always hated those stairs after that. All stairs, really. It takes him years to overcome the wobbliness his body would succumb to every time he set foot on a stairway.

###### One Year Ago

Over a decade since Yusuke's tumble down the stairs, Madarame has the railing torn down and a wall put up.

"Ah, I'll miss the open air," he says, eyeing Yusuke. Always his fault. Whose else could it be? "But it's better for everyone's safety. I'm not as steady on my feet as I once was."

"And the models," Yusuke says.

"Yes, the models." Madarame nods, as if the wellbeing of his models had occurred to him whatsoever. Yusuke can almost see the yen signs flashing through his mentor's head as he considers the possible monetary compensation. "Their safety, too."

The air is stale in the room now, walled off and isolated. But the floor is still scratchy, the cupboard doors still creaky on their hinges.

It isn't until later that Yusuke realizes what it's all for; it is not a fluke, but by design.

Madarame asks Yusuke to pose for him. Wouldn't you know it, his model for the day canceled on him at the last minute? These things happen, Madarame insists. Unfortunate, but it's best to have backup plans in case.

Yusuke is the backup plan.

"Naked," Madarame says when Yusuke crawls up into the alcove. The sheets are fresh; they smell faintly of flowers. "This is to be a nude painting, Yusuke."

He's never done anything like this before. Yusuke unbuttons his shirt so slowly, Madarame rushes over to pull it open. His pants slide off easily over thin legs, belt betraying him for the first of many times.

Shirt, pants, underwear, socks: all lie on the mattress, a second skin yearning for its owner. Madarame shoves them off the bed, beyond Yusuke's reach. He'll have to slide out of the alcove if he wants to get dressed. As if Madarame would ever allow him to do such a thing.

Yusuke has never seen Madarame move so quickly, age always hindering his movement. But not when Yusuke is here to be undressed, a present he is finally able to unwrap with greedy hands.

At first, Madarame sketches him. He stands in front of the pad of newsprint set upon his easel, pencils flying and eyes squinting. He tries, but the allure is too strong; he'll tell Yusuke this later after it's all over.

_I could not resist. Don't you understand?_

_No,_ Yusuke will dream of saying. _I do not._

Yusuke has no clothing, no second skin to protect him. Madarame crawls into the alcove, invades Yusuke's space, smearing graphite over his chest. His nipples are sensitive, hardening beneath Madarame's touch. He never wanted to know this, to feel this. Not like this.

The room is full of trembling; the very walls seem to quake. At some point, Madarame hung a string of lights around the inner walls of the alcove. They twinkle red and blue, the brightest stars in Yusuke's eyes. His vision swims.

Legs spread. Leathery hands cascading down his thighs, determined to destroy. When Madarame touches him for the first time, fingers wrapping around the tip of his soft cock, Yusuke sits up so fast he hits his head on the cupboards above. If only the cupboards would collapse, crushing them; but no, their contents just rattle around. Yusuke imagines it's paint and brushes and pencils, all rolling away from him. Disgusted.

"What have we given?" Madarame asks, voice hoarse. His tongue is on Yusuke, licking up from his balls, all along the underside of his cock.

Yusuke has given everything, even unconsciously. He never asked for this life. Never requested Madarame's tutelage. It was an inheritance from his mother, one Madarame intends to hold her to, even in death: _You didn't give me what I desired, so I will take it from your son._

Did Madarame demand this of Yusuke's mother, too? A finger slips inside, curls; hips rock forward, tears prickling his eyes. Did she refuse his advances? Yusuke hopes she fought hard. But he has nowhere to go, no one to be without Madarame.

Yusuke lies still, hips aching as he opens himself up to his mentor.

Above him: the twinkling lights. His tears make them blend together, brushstrokes of light in the darkness.

Below him: the worst betrayal, stretching him open. Ruining him for all of time.

###### Today

Yusuke hears Madarame's slippered feet on the stairs past midnight. The quiet scuffle of ancient feet struggling upstairs. His guests have vacated the premises; they are alone.

Madarame's bedroom is on the first floor. There's only one thing he could be after now.

And thus Yusuke meets him halfway. He stands on the landing just as Madarame wants him: naked. When Madarame looks up, Yusuke can see the hunger on his withered face, cracked with age and greed like centuries-old leather. Yusuke reaches out to him, arms spread wide.

Between them: the rest of the stairs. Yusuke has known these stairs his whole life, the wood as warped as he is. He has fallen from them, and he has looked to them for salvation, creeping up them and hiding in the alcove on nights when Madarame was too tired to chase him.

He relies on them again tonight. His fingers wriggle in the air, desperate to touch, but Madarame is slow, even in his lustful state. He eyes Yusuke hungrily, licking at his lips; his slippers slap, slap against the wood.

Until finally he is at the top, his arms wrapping around Yusuke's waist, kissing his bare chest. Yusuke brushes Madarame's hair with his fingers, hair tie falling onto the stairs. Standing like this above his mentor, Yusuke feels powerful. His body thrums; he is both everything and nothing at once.

And then he pushes, even as Madarame tries to cling to him, reaching for his hair, a limb, anything. For the first time, there is fear in Madarame's eyes. Is it fear of death or abhorrence for Yusuke, for everything he has done to make his adoptive son turn into such a man? In the end, does Madarame feel remorse?

He tumbles down the stairs, much as Yusuke had years before. But Madarame is much more fragile, his bones just begging to break, and he lies in a heap at the base of the stairs.

Yusuke takes his time descending, stroking the railing along the wall as he does so. The tiniest of thank yous, the quietest of farewells.

At first, Madarame doesn't seem to remember that it was Yusuke who pushed him. He coughs, splutters.

"Help me," he begs, clawing at Yusuke, nails scratching down his arm, drawing rivulets of blood that burn.

That isn't what Yusuke has in mind. Not exactly. He unties his sash, pushes aside the fabric until Madarame is bare to him, too. His skin is saggy, wrinkled; Yusuke pinches it between his fingers not in cruelty, but to memorize every centimeter of it. Just as Madarame had mapped out every corner of Yusuke's body, from his feet to his lips to his insides.

Yusuke's hands are curious, inexperienced. He tries to mimic how Madarame always touched him, up there in the musty alcove: thumb tracing the veins along the length of his cock, palm cupping his balls, feeling the weight of them. So small, soft, ancient.

Madarame manages an erection, but barely. The smallest hardness in the world, Yusuke thinks. Like a curved, fleshy stick of willow charcoal. It's difficult enough for him to press it past his rim, his hips resting atop Madarame's. His feeble semi-arousal hits nothing inside Yusuke, not like he has managed to so many times before — toes curling, pleasure coursing through every part of his body as he comes, cock untouched, twitching against his stomach — but it's not about that.

Even from within, he can feel the life fade. Madarame stops begging for his life, eyes hazy, lips quivering. His last words have been spoken, his final gift to the world. No more art will be thieved, not by this man; no more wards to debase and defile.

Yusuke is hard, wanting. Despite the lack of physical stimulation, his body thrums. He is in control, hips rocking. When Madarame's head flops to the side, no longer staring at him with such surprise, Yusuke leans over him. He grinds his arousal against loose skin that loses its warmth perhaps faster than it should.

But Yusuke knows Madarame never held much warmth inside. He was a phantom, a ghostly thief who fed off of the lifeforce of others. The energy made him full, plump.

Now his sensei is nothing, just as he always made Yusuke feel: microscopic, insignificant, forgettable. Yusuke rides him until he comes, eyes squeezing shut, hips shuddering. For the first time, he is not only something but everything. Not a tool to be used nor a plaything to be abused; he is himself. Madarame is still beneath him, lifeless, but Yusuke keeps moving his body. There is cum on Madarame's chest as well as on his own. Thick. He dips his fingers into it, bringing it to his nose. How strange to smell himself as he never has. Madarame stole his interest in masturbation before it could ever truly begin. Tonight is a reclamation.

And just like that, it is over as quickly as it began. Madarame is dead beneath him, body stiff. Arousal ebbing away, as pathetic as the man himself.

Yusuke leans down, presses his clammy forehead against Madarame's. Mumbles a prayer, much more than he deserves. And then Yusuke turns from the mangled corpse of his mentor.

The first creak of the stairs is delayed, as if the whole structure is surprised at his crime. Or perhaps it is an intentional moment of silence in solidarity; then the second creak is louder, the third even more booming until all Yusuke can hear is its incessant groaning.

His fingers slide up the smooth railing, bolts coming loose from the wall. His knees quiver, semen drying cool and chalky on his chest.

When he's at the top of the stairs, he doesn't look behind him. Instead, he closes his eyes, sinking to the floor. He reaches down the stairs with his arm, patting the understanding wood.

 _Thank you,_ Yusuke thinks.

_Thank you._


End file.
